Open Caskets
by commiserable
Summary: There's always been different ways of coping. Different ways of mourning. They both know that by now.


The intentions he held years ago, robbing a store at gunpoint, getting himself shot, left him as quick as it came. There was nothing it could fix, no part of himself, or _anyone_ else, it could have salvaged. He doesn't remember why he did it, why he made such a rash decision. Dallas doesn't understand how someone's death, how such a punk ass kid's death, could affect him like that. There's too many things he doesn't understand anymore.

He doesn't understand when Cherry Valance visits him in the hospital, but he's sure no one else does either. The smile she gives him is reminiscent of a pearl necklace his mother wore in his youth. It sparks milky in hospital fluorescents.

This time around, as she stands a few feet away from his bed, asking stupid questions with her hands folded crisp over her skirt, he doesn't bark at her. The way her eyes peer out from underneath dark thick hair, a deep wine red he had never realized prior, the way she holds herself as if afraid he'll snap in two with anger, or violence or something entirely— He decides this time around, he likes her.

When it's late, sun down and nurses shooing visitors out, and she decides to leave with her pale coloured purse and another pure smile, he reaches out. Fingers brush against her for arm, he thanks her. The burn in her cheeks, it's familiar too. It's lovable too.

* * *

><p>It takes him three weeks to be well enough to leave the hospital, even with nonfatal wounds. He lost too much blood, bruised his ribs and every other part of his body, ate lead like it was a contest. Leaving, they still make him take antibiotics, make him lay off drinking, with the heavy hand of an over-maternal roofer forcing the process.<p>

His crimes don't get him the punishment he wants, the one he knows he deserves, and he's bitter. Community service lies heavy on his tongue, but he accepts it and moves on without much fuss. It'd be a sin to argue for a worse sentence.

Picking up garbage, fines to the state, dinners at the Curtis' and beers at the bar. The days begin to blend into one another, and he watches it with ease. No fuss here, either. It isn't bad. One conversation hangs out between all those filled with silence and tight nods, all the empty ones he didn't care enough for. He remembers Two-Bit asking him about Johnny. It's the only thing in colour in all these black in white fragments, for whatever reason. The way his adam's apple bobbed in his throat, how the ginger shuffled his hands once too many, wouldn't look him in the eye. He wanted to ask him something more, besides that choked out name that didn't sound half as nice as the boy it belonged to. Dallas feels it in himself and _knows_ he wanted something. The question never came, the blonde tries not to think about it.

Cherry Valance visits him once, and the days spill into long afternoons and nights that don't last as long as he wanted. The more she comes around, in her stingray, to Dairy Queen, reveals herself in farfetched dreams and hopes—

The more she comes around, the less he thinks about a question Keith never managed to ask him. Needs for fight and flight, yearning for some brown eyed boy, are forgotten when her hand no longer retaliates and belongs in his.

He realizes her eyes are the truest, darkest, green he'd ever seen.

* * *

><p>His borrowed bed becomes hers, as easy as her hands had. Both are sober the first time, when they stand in a dirty room that isn't her's and doesn't belong to him. It's later decided it was better that way.<p>

Dallas lied shirtless on the bed, pants on, but unbuttoned. When she came from the bathroom, skirt and blouse folded on the ledge of the sink, arms wrapped around her figure defensive, she smiled. There was something in it he had never seen before, an insecurity that had never suited her. His eyes hold her form like the arms of a lost lover, a gaze that's held a moment before Cherry's hands fall to her hips. Vibrant nails, a harsh red against the pale fabric off her underwear, polka-dotted the same shade, draw his attention. Admiration leaves him as her thighs brush together when her panties finally fall to her feet.

His arms accepted her, held her like he had pulled her from her death, as if he was afraid she'd beak in his grasp. His hands gentle on her shoulders, her lower back, long fingers knot through her hair soft, brushing it from her face. Cherry's sure she loves him, sure as the brush of lipstick she leaves on his neck and his mouth. The blonde, bowed over her as if she was a holy relic, as if she was the Virgin Mary, tells her he does in between hushed breath and quiet grunts.

The next time, the time after that, after that, after that— Neither of them are sober, and flecks of nail polish are broken underneath Dallas' skin.

She loves him, she's sure, as she finds her underwear bare for two months in a row, with the exception of the dots painted on to the fabric. Cherry love him, but looking back, she wonders if she, if he, had ever been that gentle.

* * *

><p>Dallas is sure he loves her when they get married.<p>

The proposal isn't great. In the parking lot of Dairy Queen, his head turned out the window as he blew out smoke that he knew wouldn't be good for any baby. It's half said, half mumbled, and Cherry stares at him long after it falls from the air.

"_You want to get married?_" The blonde only nods, never turns to look at her, doesn't say a word. Still, she agrees, her lips giving birth to smile she doesn't know if she feels deep inside. There isn't anything else they can do, is there?

The marriage, the process, isn't what she dreamed of. In the privacy of a courthouse, they hold hands, agree to the terms and conditions dressed as they have everyday. The Valance's, her parents, drip with disappointment as their daughter moves out. Home becomes a rundown apartment too far into the wrong side of the tracks, and her hairbrush finds place besides his razor. As her last name becomes his.

The weight she gains poisons the body of the cheerleader she used to be, and the months she spends on the couch as Dallas drifts in between illegality and fruitless job hunting spread so long she begins to forget how she had gotten their in the first place.

But, he kisses her forehead every morning before he leaves, and every night when he gets home.

His hands feel soft, feel right against her stomach. The cake he eats with her as they lie on top the couch, a gift from his friend who looked happier than her for the daughter growing inside, reminds her of the good things about him. Reminds her of his eyes, the smell of his jacket, how soft he could be when they were alone. How soft he had been in a hospital bed.

They love each other, she's sure. She just doesn't understand why the ghost of a dark haired boy, once handsome and fearless, once loved, is what she expects when he walks through the front door.

He doesn't know why the boy with a soft face, who he had pulled from fires and mourned so hard his very being collapsed, haunts him when he can't sleep at night.

It had never bothered them before.

* * *

><p>Too late, a truth undeniable comes to surface, many years after a child with pale hair and iced eyes, with needy limbs is born.<p>

Cherry's eyes are too bright, the fine wine of her hair never dark enough to be considered black. It's easy to see how she trembles when he holds her, when he kisses her. How she did many years before, in a hospital room barely forgotten, and in a drive-in what had to be a lifetime before.

Heads laid beside each other, as they sit feet apart on a mattress they had shared for years, he breathes inside himself. Remarks inside that Johnny had trembled, but never because of him.

Hair spread across the white clean fabric that she had washed twice the day before, Cherry lifts a hand to comb through the red locks that hadn't faded with age. Doesn't turn to her husband of the past decade, of the past couple years, as they share breath and lie in a way so familiar. Not touching, not in the same universe despite the short distance between their dormant bodies.

Dallas was exactly who he had been in his youth. A sharp edged boy, albeit older and silenced, he was still Dallas Winston. Still uncontrollable, still found himself at night sweating bullets and whispering for a friend long dead. A friend he had almost met once more.

He's not a leader, has half the charisma her old love did. The one before him, the one she had seen so much in Dallas. They're nothing a like, not one bit, and although in her youth that would have been perfect— It isn't the right time. The Winston boy, still infamous, hasn't lost the recklessness that had made him a prized commodity. Hadn't disowned the trait that made him such a liability. He was a man, but still acted as impulsive as a child.

The alarm on the bedside table goes off, disturbs the silence and things they come to realize a child and a marriage too late, too late in the day to start a conversation long avoided.

The man rises, face casted an ugly orange from the light outside, silhouette showing him picking his keys from the island. To pick up his child, their child. The routine's too familiar as he rises and head towards the door, so familiar he almost doesn't stop.

"_I'm sorry._" Half way towards the door, half a lightyear from Sherri. It hangs in the air, solid and tangible. He's gone before she can manage a reply, manage anything but half a breath. She wish she could return the sentiment.

It hangs in the air long after he's gone.

* * *

><p>"<em>Did you know the sunset's only so beautiful because of all the pollution in the sky?<em>"

Dallas stares at her, hand wrapped around his daughter's, her fragile grip so tight he's afraid his fingers will break. They watch her mother, smiling at them from a mirror, hair growing dangerously short as she raises another long pair of scissors. She snips another long strand of hair from close to her scalp, dropping into the linoleum with the growing pile.

The blonde, her husband, doesn't know what she means, but doesn't feel the fear nor the horror that grows in his daughter's face.

The phrase isn't familiar, but it's known. It's what they spent their lives figuring out, and as he pulls his child from the site, towards the hallway, he still loves her.

If only for the bright of her eyes, if only for the red of her hair.


End file.
